Prelude and Fugue
by bj
Summary: he knows again what he hears, he/knows that he knows, he is maybe very/lonely. Matthew/Ephram UST.


it's: prelude and fugue  
by: bj  
in sum: he knows again what he hears, he/knows that he knows, he is maybe very/lonely.  
label: matthew. matthew/ephram.  
rating: pg.  
sissies: i know you'll have no spoilers. set between "colin the second" and "everwood confidential."  
legalities: don't own, don't sue.  
i say: second person pov. summary from james strecker's "the art of the fugue," in the "variations on genius" cycle. continued by "six partitas."  
you say: all comments appreciated, answered, and archived. allcanadiangirl@lycos.com or review.

  
**prelude and fugue**  
  
He's not here one afternoon, he's late, Dr. Brown leaves you in the living room with an apology. You pull Bach from your briefcase and go for Prelude & Fugue No. 5 in D Major. You set it up, you warm your hands between your thighs, under your arms, you perfect your posture.  
  
You see Gould on the stage, you see him inhabit the music and resent the audience, you set your fingers on the ivory, you press through the first page and into the second. The key tears you, you make it sound as if there are four relaxed hands rather than two straining ones.  
  
The first time you played this you were thirteen, you were alone in the house and you took your father's Bach book from the piano bench. You were careful with the sheets, they were yellow and creased with age, pencil chicken scratch in the corners. You sat at the grand in your mother's parlour, you plunged your hands into the keyboard up to your wrists, you tore the prelude to pieces. When you were finished, your teacher was standing in the doorway and he smiled his ancient, gap-toothed smile. You stowed the book away and put up your own exercises. You've never played it for anybody else.  
  
You lift your hands at the end of the prelude, you hold your breath and he applauds, sardonically, standing beside you. That smile. He insults you, you answer back and move away from the piano. You pass a hand over his back as he sits. You reach over his shoulder to take your music, his hand grabs yours.  
  
"No," he says. "Let me try it."  
  
You pull from his grasp before he can feel your pulse speed up. You try to dissuade him, half-heartedly. You want to watch him kill himself for this piece. When you tell him bluntly that he can't do it, he tunes you out, he firms his face and turns to the sheet. He puts his hands on the keys. If he's visualising, you want him to see you.  
  
You move back, you watch his eyes on the page.  
  
The key does not tear him, he tears the key. You figure he's heard the piece before today, probably more than once, no more than three times because he doesn't appreciate the lowest notes of the left hand. You like the way he holds his shoulders still. He is entirely composed, he compresses the physical passion, the entire joy, he moves it down his arms and through his fingers.  
  
You wonder what he would think of Gould's thrashings. You wonder if he thought you were any good.  
  
You walk around the bench, you observe from every accessible angle, you move the fingers of your left hand, trying to encourage him. Get him to plumb that depth of sound lying just within his reach.  
  
He doesn't know the spaces between the notes, and you know he's heard it twice. Once live: you can tell by the way he half-anticipates the movement of his hands that he was sitting close to the performer. Once recorded: you can tell by the way he is trying to remember the melody that he knows how to listen to music.  
  
He is at the top of the last page, you watch as he fights to finish, the effort is in his face for once. His right fingers twist and struggle. You put your hands in the space above his shoulders, you feel the peace running from him like smoke from a fire. He's burning in the final minute.  
  
He doesn't seem to notice and you don't mind. Right hand dominates, then left, then he crashes his hands into the last chord.  
  
His focus seems stuck on the chart, as if making absolutely sure there isn't another note left, not another stroke to kill. His fingers slide from the keys and he leans back, he leans into you.  
  
You let your hands fall to his weary, competent bones and he exhales deeply. The heat of his body and creak of the pedal as his foot slips away.  
  
"Pretty good," you say.

You pull Beethoven, Bach, Mozart out and you lean them up for him and have him play the first page of one, the sixth page of another. You tell him to go faster, you make him make his hands move faster than his eyes can, you watch him stumble, watch his fingers trip over each other and crash into fists. A thunder of accidentals.  
  
You tell him his hands are weak. He nods and, grim-faced, starts over. He never asks how to make his hands stronger. You like that.  
  
You like taking over the keys and showing him that your hands are strong. You like the way he looks at you when you've proved to him he's not the great pianist everybody says he is. You think he needs low self-esteem for this, or he wouldn't do it. You oblige, you break him down.  
  
When he's silent and crushed on the bench, you hand him a thick book. "The Six Partitas," you say. "Work on these."  
  
He nods and opens the chart to a random page. The tangle of lines and dots flows uninterrupted from page to page. He flips slowly, then faster. He closes the book, shaking his head. "I can't play this. It's too hard." He looks up at you, and you know right now he needs to be built back up.  
  
Facing him, you straddle the bench, you take his shoulders in your hands. You tell him he can. You tell him that wrestling the possibility from his static flesh is a greater accomplishment than perfect talent. You tell him that working for it makes it better. You tell him messing it up a million times makes the perfection worth attaining. You tell him the simple pieces are not worthy of his hands.  
  
His eyes move as he listens to you, he looks away, he nods. He moves his shoulders, he lays one of those hands over your left wrist as if to protest what you're saying. He meets your eyes, he blinks. You run out of words and your mouth goes dry. If you could speak you'd need to be telling him he doesn't need perfect music because he is perfect.  
  
His fingers tighten on you, then fall slack and his hand slips away. He looks at the book in his lap, he opens it again. He reads, and this time he is reading with the intent of playing.  
  
You bring your hands back. He leans forward. His fingers start moving on his thighs as he reads, he takes a breath before turning each page. You get ready to tell him you're cutting him loose, that today's lesson is over. You get ready to tell him he'll need to spend an extra hour each day with the partitas.  
  
You stand and gather your coat, briefcase, you take your keys from the top of the piano. He looks at you again, and you tell him he's free for the afternoon.  
  
He smiles, he shakes his head. "I'll never be free of you," he says wretchedly, "and your beloved Bach."  
  
You smile back. You hope not.

  
End. 


End file.
